On The Edge
by Romanadvoratnalundar
Summary: And suddenly, he's jolted outwards of his body. Floating upwards towards nothingness yet still firmly grounded upon the earth. The thoughts of Sherlock Holmes as he experiences a black mood. Drabble. Slight gore/self-harm warning.
1. On The Edge

**A/N:** this is the first Sherlock Holmes story I've written in years. I might make it a two shot but I feel like it sits well the way it is.

Tell me what you think and leave a review

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He sits on the edge of a precipice. Letting his own thoughts leading him to many places, yet none quite as horrendous as his own mind is at the moment. The room is chilly, the fire long gone out; And he supposes Watson has been asleep for hours already.

The seconds pass achingly slow, and Sherlock Holmes wonders for a second if he's gone mad. The void beckons to him, and he longs to join it in its absolute solitude. The darkness has passed upon his soul before, but never quite so strong.

His mind is racing despite sitting on the edge of what feels like a cliff. And suddenly, he is in his room; Standing before the wash basin, his shaving razor in hand as he drags it slowly down the length of his arm. The metal is cool against his skin and he can feel the blood slowly dripping, soaking his arm and pooling onto every surface available. He smiles at the sight, as if he were greeting a long lost friend. In a sense, he is.

Swirling around him are vague sensations and thoughts. The closing of a recent case, the newspaper this morning, coffee with Watson. They drift around like drug induced dreams and he wonders for a second if he may have shot just a tad bit too much cocaine. Or was it morphine? He doesn't remember.

And suddenly, he's jolted outwards of his body. Floating upwards towards nothingness yet still firmly grounded upon the earth. His eyes are glazed, and it feels like his mouth is a desert, yet in the recesses of his mind, Sherlock Holmes doesn't care.

He can see himself in the mirror, and isn't surprised when it speaks to him.

"Do you want to die?" His mirror self asks him, and he doesn't respond.

He can see the black moons in his eyes as he continues to stare at his reflection, his arm bleeding out beneith him, yet his awareness elsewhere.

"Do you want to die?" The person in the mirror asks again, and all he can think to respond is

"I don't know anymore."


	2. Never An Absolution

**A/N:** okay, so maybe one chapter wasn't good enough. And maybe two chapters isn't going to be enough. I don't know how long this fic is going to be, but I guess you lovely readers are just going to find out with me. Enjoy, and leave a review please C:

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To Sherlock Holmes, death is an absolution.

He stands upon the bridge between life and death, habitually flirting with the other side. He wonders if there really is something beyond the earthly realm, if there is more to existence than the experiences one faces while on Earth.

His mind wanders. The case had ended some days ago, or perhaps it was weeks ago? He doesn't know, for the days had blurred together; coalescing into the nothingness and stagnation that comes with such endeavors. Including the seven percent solution he so favored during such times.

The bridge wavers, and the scene changes around his haze filled mind. He is sitting in a boat, it is tethered to a nearby doc. Fog swirls all around him and the water laps slowly. His mirror self is with him, sitting across from him in an almost condescending way.

"You should be concerned with more important things" he chides him, and he almost wants to roll his eyes at himself.

"Like what? The fact that I'm in the middle of an overdose?" He snaps back. He knew he was overdosing, experiencing the classic symptoms associated with his poison of choice. The bitter metallic taste in his mouth, the numbness in his legs, hallucinations, the burning heat that pulsed within him, his heart pounding too fast in his chest. Sherlock Holmes is dying.

He is pulled out of his dream for a moment when his body collapses onto the cold hard floor below, the blood becoming sticky as it congeals and pools around him.

Sherlock Holmes doesn't care.

"But Dr Watson cares."

He is abruptly pulled out of his reverie at the thought of Watson discovering his body, cold and dead on the floor where he collapsed. And suddenly, his thoughts twist and curl in on themselves; taunting him with Watson. Taunting him with the thought that Watson actually cared about him, that Watson would be heartbroken if he had died where he was lying.

"Watson..." He croaks out, his voice hoarse as he tries to move; No longer in his drug induced dreams. He struggles, attempting to drag himself to the washroom. He needed to try, atleast.

"Watson..."

Then the silence came.


End file.
